


Reichenbach Retreat

by Adorabelle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Use, First Time, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Consensual Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adorabelle/pseuds/Adorabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if James Moriarty had been stopped just before taking his leap to power? What if Sherlock falls further and further into a drug fuelled haze and looses himself and his family?</p><p>Reichenbach Retreat caters for a particular class of client. Clients who are lost, destroyed, irredeemable and above all else, useful. Sherlock and James have both fallen and are in the clutches of the Master of Reichenbach. But they both refuse to be useful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sun is Up, I'm a Mess

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks go to Rey, who is doing a fantastic job beta-reading this!
> 
> This story is an AU from the murder of Carl Powers and should be about 10 chapters or so long.

“Get off me! Get the fuck off me! Mycroft! Tell your idiot minions to get their fucking hands off me at once!”

  
Sherlock thrashed in the twin iron grip holds as the two larger men carried him down the hall.

  
_Mr Left is a smoker and probably gay- enjoying the man-handling way too much. Mr Right is annoyed and wants to get back home to his girlfriend and their dog- possibly a beagle, no a jack russel- maybe… a cat?_

  
Sherlock shook his head, attempting to clear the constant fuzziness of his thoughts. He then grimaced as another wave of nausea slammed into him and made him dry heave. The men quickly stopped for the fourth time during his forced march and thrust his head down and to the side of the hall.

 

“So kind,” Sherlock grumbled when his retching fit had finished.

  
There was no answer other than a small sigh from behind him and the pull of his guards as they dragged him forward yet again. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

  
_Oh brother dear, how you do act so put upon._

  
“No one asked you to do this Mycroft! I certainly fucking didn’t!” Sherlock spat as he was flung into a small room. He collapsed on the floor as soon as the two morons released his arms.

  
A shadow fell over him and, out of pure obstinacy, Sherlock managed to pull himself up. Still, the trembling hand that clutched the small side table in the room betrayed his body’s weakness. Not that it was the only clue to his obvious -and quite pathetic state- Sherlock freely admitted. Yet, something about allowing Mycroft to lord it over him completely made him want to retch even more than he was already inclined to. Sherlock raised his head and glared at his archenemy.

  
“No one asked me, you spoiled little brat. You know _no one_ asked me.” Mycroft answered with a carefully blank face. “I expect you to come out of this clean. I am tolerating this no longer Sherlock. You are not leaving until the experts here give me the all clear. If you do leave here before then you will be tracked down and dragged back again and again until you are clean. If that means you never leave here then so be it.”

  
Sherlock emphatically did not flinch at the ice that crept into his brother’s petty speech, but instead curled his lips into a derisive sneer.

  
“That’s your plan is it? Lock me up in here and all your problems are solved. No more teenage druggy brother getting in the way of your government ambitions.”

  
“Don’t be ridiculous Sherlock.” Mycroft gave him a cold smile. “The term teenager hardly fits a man a month or so away from entering his twenties.”

  
“I wonder if I’m the only little secret you’ve got locked up here. Who else is in this loony bin you don’t want interfering with your precious career?” Sherlock muttered on, ignoring his brother’s pointless reply. “Or is it a recent free perk you have acquired? One that’s saved for key members of our illustrious government. A place for the dirty little problems of Britain’s finest-“

  
“Enough,” Mycroft snapped. “You know what this place is. Don’t tire me with your drug addled ramblings.”

  
“That’s the problem though, isn’t it Mycroft? I’m not 'drug addled'!” Sherlock glowered, tremors worming their way down his body. “Don’t you want to answer my questions? Hitting too close to home am I?”

  
“I obviously am. You’re desperate for it already, aren’t you?”

  
“Fuck off,” Sherlock snarled.

  
Mycroft raised his eyebrows. “For once you have a good idea.”

  
Mycroft turned his head at the sound of voices at the door and nodded to his two ‘helpers’. They immediately moved aside to allow an older woman and a young man through.

  
“I’ll let you get acquainted with your carers then,” Mycroft smirked. “I’ll be checking up on you soon Sherlock. Do try not to be an idiot.”

  
Sherlock just glared at his brother as he turned and left with the two men. They were immediately replaced by an even bigger man who watched Sherlock stonily as he contemplated making a break for the exit.

  
“-be here for you the entire time.”

  
Sherlock barely glanced at the nurse and trainee doctor as they nattered platitudes at him. He threw himself down on the sad little mattress in the room and closed his eyes, willing away the nausea that was once again threatening to overwhelm him.

  
He was becoming incredibly uncomfortable and it was getting to the point where he was unable to shut it out. Sweat was making his skin prickle and clothes damp and his back was aching even more than earlier. The constant nausea was wearing, and the tremors he was having made him feel all the more miserable. Of course he knew it would get worse within the next 24 hours if his intolerable condition continued. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He loathed Mycroft.

  
The cheery inane chatter interrupted his brooding.

  
“-of course withdrawal is always hard and we will be sure to-“

  
“Look could you just shut up and go and get me some tea or something?” Sherlock asked irritably.

  
The nurse looked a bit taken aback before reply calmly, “I’m not your housekeeper dear.”

  
“You can’t talk to Mrs. Hudson like that. Show some respect!”

  
Sherlock opened his eyes and scanned the trainee doctor quickly.

  
“Ugh. Dull.”

  
The man frowned at him, about to reply with a no doubt boring lecture on social niceties when an alarm pierced the quiet halls. Sherlock groaned and covered his ears. It made his brain ache.

  
The nurse and doctor exchanged a quick, worried glance.

  
“You go. And Horace. I’ll stay here and don’t worry- he’s not going anywhere.” Sherlock lip-read the nurse’s hurried communication and sneered. What would be the point of escape with Mycroft breathing down his neck?

  
The doctor hesitated, glancing at Sherlock and frowning. Sherlock ignored the man.

  
“Go quick. They will need help with him.”

  
He finally nodded and left with the extremely large man who, to Sherlock’s amusement, looked quite horrified to be dragged into investigating the cause of the alarm.

  
When the door closed as they left the alarm noise dimmed and Sherlock lowered his hands with a sigh.

  
“Does that happen often? It is doing wonders to give me a restful recovery I must say.”

  
“Not often dear. These days it’s normally only used for one patient.”

  
The nurse was distracted and uncomfortable. Whoever this alarm was for must be one of Reichenbach Retreat’s priorities and someone who had a very large effect on the staff. A trouble maker. Sherlock smirked and wondered what sort of person could cause such a reaction.

  
“And who’s that?” Sherlock asked, intrigued by the strange look in the woman’s eyes.

  
“James Moriarty.”


	2. Lost Like Some Forgotten Dream

The last twelve hours had been hellish.

Sherlock was curled up in a ball of utter agony in the corner of what he’d come to call his cell. Various fluids surrounded and covered him as he refuse to be moved from the floor and screamed at anyone who came in so much of a spitting distance.

This was so much worse than lying in a dirty smack den. At least there he had been able to disconnect and relax. Here his brain was racing through disjointed thoughts and fears, ones that appeared to have been saved up during the time he had been self-medicating. Not only was his mind punishing him but his body, which had coped fine with poor sleep and nutrition before, now wanted him to feel every twinge of pain he should have experienced while he was high.

How he wished Mycroft were here now to scream and curse at for putting him in this situation. Instead he had to settle for the nursing staff who were, to say the least, not impressed by his rages.

He knew one was posted outside his door right now just in case he accidentally drowned in his own vomit or something. Sherlock gave a half-hearted sneer towards that general direction. They were not very helpful. They refused to give him anything that might have calmed him. This meant suffering through the worst of the withdrawal completely aware and so very awake. Sherlock would give anything to sleep right now. He was sure this forced consciousness was muddling up his brain and he was starting to hear things.

Just now, for example, he was sure he had heard a muffled thump and footsteps outside his door. It was the sort of thump and scuffle noises you would expect to hear when someone had just been knocked out and dragged off, the likelihood of which was near impossible in a place with Reichenbach’s security.

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes tightly. Even that hurt. He attempted to retreat to his mind palace but failed yet again. Instead of his usual neat and numerously floored mansion there were crumbling walls and needle littered floors.

He frowned as even that vision faltered when he heard the door to his room open.

“Get out. I need to go to my mind palace,” he muttered.

“Really? And how’s that working out for you?” a soft lilted voice asked.

Sherlock calculated that it was probably time for a shift change and this new man must be the next nurse to keep an eye on him. The interaction and the question surprised him, however, as the others had kept clear of him and had only been interested in attempting to get him to take care of his basic needs. The question also suggested an understanding of mind palaces that few people had, as the tone of the question was one of derision. The man clearly expected Sherlock to find it difficult at the moment to access the correct mental state.

“It would be better if you would go and get me something that would ease my current condition,” Sherlock snapped, still attempting to summon his mind palace.

“Oh yes, your condition.” Light footsteps grew louder as they walked towards him. “I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but here at Reichenbach we don’t pander to the demands of weak willed little druggies.”

Sherlock sighed. Lovely. Not only was he going through severe physical pain but it seemed like he was now in for a shaming speech from some arrogant little shit who couldn’t even work his way through a PhD.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I boring you, Sherlock?” The unexpected honeyed tone alerted Sherlock that something wasn’t quite right. The man’s voice also now sounded disturbingly close.

“I do so try not to be boring. How about _this_?”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and he just about managed to roll away from the foot that came rushing towards his stomach. The tip of the boot only grazed his side but even that was too much for Sherlock. His body seemed to magnify the pain and it spread out to every part of him. He slowly raised himself somewhat upright on trembling arms and threw up what little liquid he had left in his stomach.

“Tut, tut Sherlock. Look at you. Barely able to move, covered in some quite _disgusting_ fluids and, I must say, not smelling as fresh as you could.”

Sherlock squinted through a pained wince at the boots that paced slowly up and down in front of him. The boots stopped with an abrupt click and knees came into his line of sight. A hand grabbed his curled hair and pulled. He had to swiftly clench his teeth together to halt the urge to vomit again from the pain.

The first glimpse of his tormentor made his heart plummet suddenly. This man was not a nurse. This man was not, in fact, a member of Reichenbach’s staff at all. Sherlock’s uncontrollable shivering increased.

_Dark hair and stubble well groomed but clothes that didn’t fit- borrowed? Stolen. No sign of discomfort from use of physical violence. Criminal. Pale complexion and small frame, intelligent eyes. Higher ranking criminal. Blank expression, none of the imagined scorn. Yet, some sort of intense emotion building in the man, evident from the look in his eyes and the hardening of his grip. Loathing._

Sherlock’s mind whirred as it tried to come up with explanations for the man’s presence. Had he seriously pissed off some unstable drug lord while he was on his last hit?

“Who are you?” Sherlock mumbled.

The dark eyes that stared back at him seemed to grow darker still.

“Do you see yourself, Sherlock? Can you hear yourself? I’m disappointed,” the man muttered darkly before suddenly screaming, “Very disappointed!”

Sherlock was flung back against the wall and groaned, not able to find the strength to move away from the psychopath. The man sighed and, strangely, sat beside him.

“You’ve ruined it, you know. Look at you, weak as a kitten and unable to make any kind of deductions.” The man sighed before continuing mockingly, “‘ _who are you?’_  I can see I have completely wasted my time with such an ordinary person.”

Sherlock frowned with distaste at that. He was not ordinary.

“Oh well, have fun at Reichenbach, Sherly. Though actually, no, I suppose you won’t.”

The man rose and walked towards the door with lazy grace.

Sherlock’s fuzzy brain seemed to still in sudden clarity as his observations quickly turned into analysis and then-

“James Moriarty. Voice and appearance suggest Irish, early twenties. Working class background. Moved to England during early teens. Revulsion of substance abuse indicates one parent some sort of addict. An alcoholic. Most likely father. Mother? Deceased. Thin frame, intelligence and soft voice, no doubt bullied during school. Socially isolated, no peers or family support. Quickly frustrations manifested into petty crime and cruelty towards others. Late teens you became heavily involved in higher level crime and were caught attempting or achieving a much more sinister act. Murder. Your presence here suggests an attempt on a high ranking official. You were classed as high risk to the government but due to a failed psych evaluation you were brought to Reichenbach Retreat instead. Where, I have no doubt, you are more securely confined than any ordinary prison anyway.”

Sherlock watched, heart thumping in a manner he didn’t understand, as the man paused and turned to face him. A small smirk played on his lips and his eyes narrowed with interest.

“Well, well, well. You’ve not killed off as much of that lovely brain as I thought you might have. You weren’t completely correct, though.”

Sherlock grimaced.

“There’s always something. What did I miss?”

“I’ll not give everything away, but I will say that the reason you gave for my presence at our current _residence_ ,” James spat the last word, “is not quite right.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in disbelief.

“Don’t get me wrong, honey, I’m not a nice person. But you’ve not quite got hold of all the facts.”

There was then a quiet shuffling noise from the corridor and James rolled his eyes. “Here we go again. Sorry you have to see this, sexy, but my adoring public gets sooooo antsy when I don’t perform.”

The alarm from earlier suddenly sounded and Sherlock’s door burst open to reveal a whole host of male medical staff.

“So, which of you motherfucking _pussies_ is going to come and get me this time?! You know the black angels look after me. Lucifer will crush your pathetic souls if you touch me!” James screamed manically, opening his arms with a flourish. He did a slow unconcerned twirl and rolled his eyes mockingly at Sherlock before turning back to the seemingly frozen men.

Sherlock could see why they weren’t eager to engage in any sort of altercation with the man. There was something about James Moriarty’s eyes that begged for any excuse to allow his more sinister nature to come to the forefront. Not that Sherlock thought it would take an excuse, that is.

One brave nurse was the first to blunder towards him and Sherlock watched with undeniable admiration of how dirty James fought against the man, not hesitating to use nails or teeth to create as much pain as possible. But finally the others began to intercede and, despite the off-putting vision James made with blood dripping from his frenzied face, he was quickly wrestled to the ground. A doctor then injected him with something Sherlock felt sure he’d probably give the rest of his brain cells to feel coursing through his own veins.

As he was dragged out James cackled and slurred at Sherlock. “Aw, don’t be like that, honey. I don’t want it. It’s bad for your health, you know.”

Sherlock stared as the door slammed shut, still slumped up against the wall where he had been thrown. The room too quiet. Sherlock’s brain was once again racing but for some reason it no longer seemed quite so chaotic. When he closed his eyes, despite the pain that was thrumming around his body, he was sure he caught a glimpse of a long softly lit corridor that was lined with familiar wooden doors.


	3. Call the Devil by Any Name

John swallowed nervously. His hand hovered in front of a closed door only to drop haltingly to his side. He cleared his throat and clenched his fist. His knuckles tapped the door quickly, before he could change his mind.

“Come.”

The door swung open at John’s touch and he stepped inside. The man who had summoned him sat behind a fine mahogany desk that somehow made John very anxious. Or perhaps that was just the man himself.

“Please.” A hand gestured to the chair that sat at the opposite side of the desk.

John moved to sit as asked, awkward under the scrutinising gaze of the other. After the strange silence went on for a minute John shifted uncomfortably.

“You asked to see me, Sir?”

The man smiled slowly.

“Doctor Watson, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Well, hopefully I will be soon, yes,” John said.

“I’m sure you’re time at Reichenbach will be of great benefit towards your medical training. Are the rest of the staff being helpful during your time here?”

John nodded, feeling a little more comfortable now. For reasons he could not quite pinpoint he always felt unsettled in the presence of the owner of Reichenbach Retreat. However, this meeting was clearly some sort of review of his progress, or possibly just the man’s way of gleaning information about his staff’s work habits. Either way, John was confident he could convince him that everything was going smoothly and as it should.

“All of them are very helpful and have shown me how to handle the work and the patients efficiently.”

“And the patients? Do you find supporting them rewarding?”

John started to agree but stopped with a frown.

“Ah. Perhaps not all of them?” The man said with a mild look.

“It’s not that it’s not rewarding in its own way,” John said quickly, not wanting to seem indifferent. “It’s just that some patients are more… difficult than others.”

The man nodded thoughtfully. “James Moriarty.”

John sighed. “He is very unnerving. And defiant. He refuses any sort of help from the staff. The whole time I’ve been here, and apparently before, he has not had any sort of connection to anyone. No one is able to manage him. All we do is drug him and hope that he will make it through the next twenty four hours in a calm state. I hate to leave any patient like that but I thought that no one would be able to get through to him.”

“So you think there is now someone who can get through to him?”

John looked at the man, startled. He thought back to what he had just said and realised he had been thinking on what he’d heard this morning.

“Horace told me Moriarty escaped last night again,” John began hesitantly, hoping he wasn’t getting any of the staff in trouble. The man waved him to continue, however, obviously used to Moriarty’s antics. “This time he didn’t leave Reichenbach. He went to another patient’s room.”

“Oh?”

“It was one of our new patients. Sherlock Holmes.”

“That is interesting.” The man agreed, adjusting his glasses.

John frowned. “I’m not sure if it was a positive interaction but Horace said Moriarty was clearly conversing calmly with Sherlock before they were interrupted by the staff. And, as I’m sure you know, this is a definite change in his behaviour.”

“It is indeed. So, you think this Sherlock Holmes could be our key to unlocking the enigma that is James Moriarty?”

“It is possible. I’m not sure how receptive Sherlock would be to helping though. He’s only been here a day but he has already demonstrated that he can also be quite… difficult.”

“Don’t worry about that, Doctor Watson. Sherlock does not necessarily need to know he is aiding us or even to be pushed towards James Moriarty. Sherlock’s interest may be roused on its own. If they are both _difficult_ as you say, perhaps like will attract like, hmmm?” The man raised his eyebrows blandly and continued, “I’m sure that if James has found someone he can relate to he won’t be quick to abandon his interest. We all know what he can be like when he finds something that fascinates him.”

John shuddered and nodded.

“I suggest you just keep an eye on how things progress,” the man said and stood. “Thank you so much for visiting with me, Doctor.”

John recognised the polite dismissal and stood to leave.

“Oh and Doctor Watson, do inform me of any developments. As you know, I am greatly invested in all the patients who are cared for at this facility. Especially poor James. I expect Sherlock may have some questions and information about James Moriarty for you already.”

John knew what he was being asked to do and he didn’t like it. He did not want to betray the confidence of one of his patients. However, the hard look the man gave him was enough to halt giving voice to his reservations. John reasoned that it was not information about Sherlock himself that he would be revealing but about another patient. Also, the information could allow John and the rest of Reichenbach’s staff to finally help James Moriarty in the way he needed. Surely this was cause enough to pass along any insights he was able to glean from Sherlock?

“I will, of course, keep you updated on the situation, Mr Magnussen,” he said finally.

John left as the man sat down once again at his desk, unable to stop thinking about the small smile on Magnussen’s usually impassive face.


	4. Feeling My Way Through the Darkness

After James Moriarty’s dramatic entrance Sherlock spent the rest of the night inside his own mind. He reclaimed his memory palace, piece by painful piece. For reasons he did not want to examine just yet he kept the encounter with James Moriarty locked in the very core of his newly reconstructed mind palace.

Eventually, sometime after dawn, his body seemed to finally surrender and sweet unconsciousness claimed him.

                                                                                                *

Sherlock awoke suddenly, disturbed by how _fresh_ he felt. He was also no longer on the floor. The fact he had been physically interfered with made his skin crawl and he listened intently for any sign of the cretins that had the nerve to touch him. Luckily for them there was no sound of anyone close by.

He opened his eyes. His room had been cleaned and was now once again in the same sterile conditions as when he was first brought here. Sherlock frowned when he realised someone had even changed his clothes to sleepwear, which made him realise just how exhausted he must have been.

He stretched his limbs cautiously and was pleased to discover the worst of his aches had faded a little. He still felt awful but thankfully no longer like he wanted to vomit out his internal organs.

A knock sounded at his door and swung open a moment later.

“Please come in, don’t concern yourself with petty things such as privacy and manners,” Sherlock muttered, glancing at the nurse and trainee doctor who had been the first two staff to introduce themselves to him.

“You’re awake then,” the doctor didn’t sound impressed.

“Oh, you poor dear, you look dreadful,” the nurse said shaking her head.

 “I feel it, Mrs Hudson was it?” he said in a shaky voice.

“That’s right dear,” Mrs Hudson patted his hand and Sherlock smiled at her wanly.

“I don’t suppose you could get me some-“

“That’s enough of that,” the doctor snapped. “You are just like every other patient here Sherlock Holmes and if you want something you will go to the café. We do not provide room service.”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

“Well it was worth a shot,” he said to Mrs Hudson with a sigh.

The nurse smiled and whispered, “Don’t mind Doctor Watson, he just likes to do things the right way. I’ll bring a little something by for you later.”

In that moment Sherlock felt his heart warm a little to Mrs Hudson. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything remotely like that as it reminded him of things he would rather forget.

“We are here to do some basic health checks Sherlock,” Doctor Watson continued with a suspicious look at Mrs Hudson, “and to make sure that you have recovered enough to move on to the next part of your stay here.”

The man proceeded to manhandle Sherlock into various positions to have access to his veins, heart, chest, all of which Sherlock reluctantly allowed.

“And what is the next part of my stay here?” Sherlock asked while the two medical staff were recording the various readings from all the instruments he was being harassed with.

“You are quite underweight. You need to make sure you do go and eat at the café. The key card in your draw will provide you with access to the places you need. That does includes the showers by the way,” Doctor Watson added pointedly. “That is actually your next step anyway. Socialisation. Getting out of this room and involved with the staff, activities, meeting other patients.”

“I’ve had my fill of other patients already,” Sherlock muttered.

Doctor Watson and Mrs Hudson exchanged glances and Sherlock glared at them.

“You’ve heard about it, have you? I may have been a little _distracted_ yesterday but I won’t forget that encounter any time soon. I assumed it was a normal occurrence here to have a lunatic attack you in your own rooms every night. Or am I just special?”

The doctor cleared his throat.

“No. It’s not how things usually happen, not even with that particular patient.”

“Did he hurt you Sherlock? That man is a monster!” The nurse exclaimed.

“Mrs Hudson,” Doctor Watson gave her a reproving look, “None of our patients are monsters. Not even the ones that need to be more… contained than others.”

“And do you make it a habit to give these ‘contained’ individuals access to personal information about your other patients?” Sherlock asked sharply.

“What do you mean?”

“James Moriarty knew my full name, he knew why I was here. How else would he know this unless someone had informed him about me specifically?”

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “Unfortunately James Moriarty is very good at getting into places he shouldn’t be in. He has no doubt read your file, which we do of course keep in our locked offices, but as I said he is good with-”

“Escapology? Picking locks?” Sherlock scowled. “Well isn’t that lovely. I’ve been here for no longer than twenty four hours and already have some obsessed madman stalking me!”

“As I said, this isn’t usual for James Moriarty. Normally he isn’t the slightest bit interested in anyone. He is usually the complete opposite. What exactly did he want last night?”

Sherlock mused silently on the question. Why did James Moriarty visit him? It had been a subject that had been running through his mind ever since he met the man. He seemed to almost know Sherlock, expect something from him- but what? Was it just some strange, random fixation the man had developed while going through the latest patients’ files in the middle of the night? Despite the way the man had acted in the last few minutes of their encounter, James Moriarty did not seem mentally incapacitated. He had been in control and was very purposeful in everything he did. Even the bizarre scene at the end of their meeting had seemed like a well-planned performance.

“I-”

At that moment a sound ripped through the air that may as well have ripped through Sherlock’s very being. He recognised it immediately and was simultaneously unnerved and intrigued.

“What did my fool of a brother put in that file?” Sherlock gritted out as he staggered to his feet.

Sherlock ignored the dumbstruck faces of the doctor and nurse and threw opened the door, amplifying the noise.

Sherlock closed his eyes and felt a familiar rush of exhilaration rush over him as one of Paganini’s erratic melodies filled the corridors of Reichenbach.

“What is that god awful racket?!” yelled Doctor Watson.

Sherlock opened his eyes and scowled at the man.

“That, my uneducated doctor, is a composition from one of the greatest violin virtuosos of all time.”

The alarm Sherlock was now familiar with joined the sound of the violin. The hall doors that sectioned off the wing Sherlock was staying in with ten or so others opened as the alarm rang out. Sherlock saw the key pads on every door, including his own, flash green.

“What the hell is going on?” Doctor Watson exclaimed.

Sherlock joined the doctor as he jogged down the corridors and into a large area where Sherlock presumed ‘socialisation’ usually took place. Currently, however, staff were dashing after patients who clearly were not supposed to be out of rooms. Patients were running around, rolling on the floor and in one case licking a worried looking woman’s head.

Sherlock took in the scene of chaos with wide eyes.

“Oh my god, yellow section has been released!” The doctor ran to help his colleagues, attempting to round up the escapees.

Sherlock saw a few staff pointing to the wall behind him and turned to look at what was causing more interest than the runaway patients.

With Paganini’s music still blaring through the facility’s sound system Sherlock looked at the wall and his heart beat a little faster, his lips twitching into a small unintentional smile. There, in startling pink spray paint, were four words scrawled on the wall;

_‘Welcome to Reichenbach Sherly’._

 

*

 

“Well, what do you want? You look well enough. From the urgency of your message I expected to find you at deaths door.”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a level gaze, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. It had been bad enough when he was dragged in here.

“What exactly did you tell the staff here about me?” he asked bluntly.

Mycroft frowned at him. “What do you think I said? I told them you are a hopeless addict and that you needed to be sorted out.”

“What about personal information?”

“Isn’t that personal enough?” Mycroft sneered.

“For god’s sake Mycroft! Did you tell them things like how I think, what music I prefer?” Sherlock snapped impatiently.

“Why would I do that? They only know basic information of course, medical and anything that may trigger any psychological or _emotional_ issues,” Mycroft said with raised eyebrows.

Sherlock grew more agitated at this. If James Moriarty hadn’t known all he seemed to know about Sherlock through any recorded information then just how did he know about Paganini, mind palaces, deduction? Sherlock’s pulse danced when he considered perhaps James Moriarty had the same sort of deducing skills he himself had acquired. The man kept surprising him at every turn.

“Do you know there is a dangerous criminal here at Reichenbach Retreat? One who is no doubt a great risk to the government?” Sherlock paced around his small room, ignoring the lingering aches his body still suffered. “He treats this place as his own little kingdom and has access to any information he wants!”

“Don’t be so ridiculous Sherlock. This is a government run facility. There are no dangerous criminals here,” Mycroft’s eyes turned icy, a sure sign that Sherlock was right in all that he just said.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s eyes flashed triumphantly. “So the name James Moriarty means nothing to you then?”

Sherlock made sure to watch for the slightest reaction to the name but was utterly disappointed when all it produced was genuine puzzlement.

“James Moriarty? No, I can’t say I know the name.”

Sherlock immediately went into a sulk and slumped down on his bed. This was not right. He hadn’t been that far off in his deductions had he?

“Sherlock, if this is some pathetic ruse to get out of here so you can start looking for your next hit then forget it. I’m glad to see you are through the worst, brother dear, but you are not leaving so easily,” Mycroft said with a sigh. “Now if you don’t mind you and your pointless ramblings have pulled me away from a very important meeting.”

“Look into it Mycroft. I guarantee you will regret it someday if you don’t. James Moriarty has the mind of a very intelligent criminal and Reichenbach staff just dance to his tune. He does as he pleases and no one here has the power to stop him.”

“I honestly doubt that,” Mycroft said blandly with a strange look in his eyes. “I will, however, look into the matter, if only to stop you from interrupting my schedule.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Mycroft left the room in what could only be described as a prissy huff.

He knew he was right about James Moriarty. He had to be. The man was clever, perceptive, and he understood Sherlock on a level that was strangely exhilarating. Sherlock did not like the thought that he was just some mad man with a knack for breaking into and out of locked rooms. He needed to know who James Moriarty was and if anyone could unravel a person’s history it was his brother. And, as Sherlock was locked up for now, Mycroft’s unfortunately slow style of investigation would have to do.

Sherlock pondered the mystery that was James Moriarty, and found he could almost forget the physical ache as his body screamed out for the chemical cocktail it had become so accustomed to.


	5. Command Me to be Well

Sherlock lay on the bed later that evening with his fingers resting together, eyes closed. The desire for a hit was becoming so unbearable that even the thought of James Moriarty couldn’t hold it off, so he had withdrawn to his mind palace.

It was about 11.35pm when he heard his door handle click and the door swing open.

Sherlock again had to control a small, inadvertent smile as he heard the predicted soft footsteps walk to his bed. However, his eyes flew open and his body stiffened as the bed dipped and James Moriarty lay down beside him.

“Um, James,” Sherlock began hesitantly.

The first thing that Sherlock saw, as his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, was the mischievous gleam in James’s eyes. Sherlock was somewhat unnerved at how close he was to those big dark eyes. He did not know how to respond to the situation. It was peculiar enough considering that the last time he had seen James the man had remorselessly attacked him. Also, someone crawling into bed with him was so far beyond the norm for him that his usual quick wit had completely disappeared.

“You are in my bed,” Sherlock finished, hating the way he was stating the obvious.

James Moriarty pouted his lips in quite a ridiculous way.

“Aren’t you happy to see me, Sherly?” he asked.

“Shouldn’t you be drugged off your face and strapped into a straightjacket somewhere?” Sherlock asked, deciding to ignore the fact that the man was in his bed with him.

“They do try,” the man smirked. “It’s quite pathetic really.”

“Do you blame them with how you were acting?” Sherlock asked raising his eyebrows.

“Don’t be boring, Sherly. I was only having a bit of fun.”

“Fun like setting loose a load of loonies and spray painting a wall?” Sherlock asked mildly.

James’ smirk broadened and his face lit up with delight.

“Did you enjoy that, honey? I even added you favourite music,” James added in a sing song voice that irked Sherlock instantly.

Sherlock feigned indifference.

“It was immature.”

“Oh Sherly don’t try to pretend with me,” James cocked his head to the side with an amused smile. “I know you practically wet your nickers when you heard that violin.”

Sherlock frowned and looked away from the man.

James leaned closer and whispered in his ear, “Aren’t you going to ask me? _Ask me_.”

Sherlock scowled and pressed his lips together firmly.

“Aw, don’t you want to play today, Sherlock?” James mocking soft voice whispered. “Are the urges a bit too much at the moment? Didn’t the Ice Man roll over and let you out so you could finish filling your blood with your pretty poison?”

Sherlock jerked away from James and sat up, staring at the man who just chuckled darkly at Sherlock’s poorly hidden surprise.

“Ask and I shall tell you, otherwise-” James motioned to his mouth as though turning a key in a lock.

Sherlock knew James wanted him to ask how he knew all this. However, his pride compelled him to give in very, very grudgingly. The whole time James was becoming more insufferably smug every silent second that ticked by.

“How do you know all this about me?” Sherlock spat out finally.

“The same way you know about me,” James smiled lazily.

Sherlock tried to school his face into vague interest rather than the explosive excitement he now felt thrumming through his body. James used deduction as a skill to read people.

“Prove it,” Sherlock demanded quickly.

James’s face turned abruptly calculating, a change from his previous playful expression that was so sudden it reminded Sherlock that although the man was probably not insane, he was not the most stable of individuals.

While James was silently analysing Sherlock it gave him a moment to concentrate on James too. The man was so engaging when he was talking with Sherlock, as he always had something interesting or intriguing to say, that he found it a challenge to focus on anything other than their conversation.

James’s face was almost boyish, his dark lashes and wavy hair only adding to the impression of youth. He looked younger than Sherlock, although he was sure that James was older than him. He was slight figured and dressed again in clothes that were obviously stolen, as they still hung off him. Perhaps he was not allowed his own clothes? He was almost as thin as Sherlock, something that was clearly by choice and not through circumstance. He was startled out of his own quiet analysis when James’s voice rang out sure and confident.

“Sherlock Holmes. I read your file, I’m sure you’ve been told. Addict, obvious from the appalling state of your appearance not to mention the mess you were in when I first saw you. Clearly addicted for some time, most likely a few years. As it states in your file, you became hooked on drugs during your time at university.  Easy enough to see why. You were an outcaste (sounding familiar, Sherly?) due to your acerbic temperament, as is evident from the charming way you talk to me and the staff who, by the way, congratulated me on giving you a ‘good kicking’. Knowing you, I have no doubt you were unable to keep your tongue when deducing that your roommate was going off with his best mate’s girl or whatever pathetic ordinary drama they had going on in their lives. But you didn’t, you couldn’t, as university was a bore for you. You were not challenged even by the subjects you had interest in, no wonder considering your IQ test results were almost on par with mine. Your mind, racing around like a little hamster on a wheel with no place to go, soon found the one way to quiet itself. That was of course drugs, and oh weren’t you glad that it was something so easy and relatively pain free to take? Much easier than anything else that may have taken effort and interaction with the mind-numbingly stupid, ordinary people around you. It also calmed you down enough to seem pleasant to be around but by then, like all addicts, you only preferred company who could acquire what you wanted.

However, your family soon found out. Anyone with a drug habit could never expect otherwise. I imagine they were informed by some acquaintance of your brother who, even then, held a large amount of influence in government (even I have heard the name Mycroft Holmes). You were immediately withdrawn and sent home where you rebelled and continued to use, despite the fact that it, no doubt, tore your loving family to bits-“

James paused a moment and Sherlock relaxed his face quickly, aware that he had probably shown too much of a reaction at that.

Sherlock cleared his throat that had become strangely dry and said in a mild tone, “Continue.”

James carried on in what was, Sherlock noted with surprise, a much softer voice.

“However, addicts and family don’t mix well. Eventually things became so tense at home you left and ran to the first London drug dealer you came across. Probably ended up in some disgusting hell hole where everyone around you was drugged up to the eyeballs. You would most likely have been left then to spiral into your own self-made mess but a note in your file persuades me that something else occurred. At some point you received a visit that you don’t remember but you know happened, which was your big brother telling you to come home, your mother was not well. You didn’t and she died.”

Sherlock closed his eyes, unable to halt the flood of grief that washed over him at James’s summary of the last few years of his life. It had only been a couple of months since his mother’s death and subsequent funeral, which he had also been too concerned about his next hit to attend. He had been effectively disowned from his family for his selfish actions, his brother only intervening now as he had climbed up the political ladder too far to have a druggy brother on the loose.

“Very good, James,” he said eventually.

When he opened his eyes he saw James looking at him with a quizzical expression.

“Please don’t tell me you’re stupid enough to blame yourself for her death?”

Sherlock scowled at him, unable to deny it.

“What was it? Cancer?”

Sherlock nodded sharply.

“How ordinary of you to blame yourself for that. You know that even if you had been a good boy and gone home she still would have died,” James voice hardened, “That’s what people do, Sherlock. They die.”

James’s words, although cold, were oddly comforting and Sherlock snorted in bemusement.

“What do you care?”

“We’re the same, you and I,” James said simply, as if that answered everything. Perhaps it did.

“Is that why you keep coming to visit me in the middle of the night?”

James smiled enigmatically.

“I should really be going now, honey. I wouldn’t want to disappoint my keepers with an empty room again, would I?”

As the man stood to leave Sherlock found himself feeling something he feared may be disappointment and in an effort to keep the strange connection going he blurted out,

“Thank you, James.”

James stopped and looked at him, his form just a shadow in the dark.

“It was… stimulating, hearing Paganini again,” Sherlock said.

James Moriarty stood stock still for a moment before turning and walking out as quietly as he had come.

*

The next day Sherlock returned from his now routine visit to the showers and noticed someone had been in his room. On his bed he found a familiar looking case with a note attached;

_Don’t be ordinary XXX_

Sherlock opened the case with shaking hands and ran a trembling finger down the Stradivarius he had sold six months ago to feed his relentless addiction. He knew it was his. He pulled out the violin that he had inherited from his beloved grandfather and stared at it. Here was the one thing that epitomised his great fall from grace and the resulting loss of his family and most of all his mother. After he had been cut off from the family money he had sold the Stradivarius without a second thought, but now his fingers clenched around the smooth wood possessively.

He found himself shaking, droplets of water spilling on the violin he cradled, and a keening wail broke from his lips. He collapsed to the floor in a haze, unable to do much more than give voice to the grief he finally allowed himself to feel.


	6. Well Now, I Get Low and I Get High

_SMACK!_

“Jesus fucking Christ!” James roared as he was jolted into consciousness.

His ears rang and his vision blurred as he tried to get a grip on where he was, who he was with and how he needed to act.

“It tires me that we have to continue with these methods so I can have a simple conversation with you Jim.” A familiar mild and misleading voice spoke.

James chuckled darkly. It is the Leech. Of course it is. He is the only one who calls him his old name, and of course the only one who has him purposefully drugged off his head on amphetamines and then just as purposefully withdrawn from the drug to create a slightly more co-operative and somewhat vulnerable James Moriarty. James glared blearily down at his bound hands and legs. Yes, here he was again, strapped to a chair in the middle of his room, body and mind both exhausted from the latest dosage he’d been given.

James looked around the room and shuddered at the scratches in the wall, the pile of urine stained bed sheets and the blood written ramblings that covered a small corner of the room. It looked like it had been an especially bad trip. It certainly felt like it.

“Yes, shocking isn’t it, how the mind can completely abandon a person when properly… _dosed_?” the man shook his head with a small smile. “It looks like a feral animal has been locked up in here.”

James’s body jerked and thrashed as he attempted to wipe the smirk off the Leech’s face. His movements soon diminished to a slight yanking before he hung his head. The Leech relished James’s humiliation during the times when he was forcibly injected with the amphetamines. The high dosage sent him spiralling into psychotic rages and made him loose complete control. Made him ordinary. His mind was effectively raped this way a few times a month, bound by the will of the one man James would give anything to see dead.

James ignored the man’s soft laughter at his efforts to get free and tried to rouse himself and regain control of his mind. It was difficult. He must have been drugged for longer than usual.

“How long this time?” James’s voice was croaky and as he spoke he tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue.

“Long enough for Sherlock Holmes to be out in the world and shooting up once again.”

James flinched.

“What’s this?” the Leech grabbed James’s cheeks and tilted his face up so dark eyes met his. “Tell me you didn’t think you could actually save him?”

James squirmed in the man’s hold, hating the fact that he could do nothing about the unwanted clammy touch. He despised Magnussen. The man was a complete leech. He attached himself to a victim and gorged on all their secrets, all their autonomy and when a person’s usefulness was ended he moved on to another more potent source. But James Moriarty was _not_ a victim. Especially to the cold, dead eyed bastard that stood before him.

“How sweet. I can see the headlines in my newspapers now: James Moriarty, rehabilitated madman, helps drug addict recover and they live happily ever after.” Magnussen let go of James’s face only to roughly pat him on the cheek in mock humour. “Even after all this time I didn’t think I had broken you so much for you to actually go insane.”

James clenched his teeth in an attempt to control the burning rage that was building up inside him.

“Did you think you could fix that pathetic little smack head? He will never be able to function without his drugs. Of course, I do feel sorry for you Jim. It’s been what? Eight years obsessing over what turns out to be a weak willed junkie, instead of the imagined equal you so craved.”

“Sherlock Holmes means nothing to me,” James spat.

“As you’ve said for the past two years. And if I say I lied and he is in fact still recovering in the room just down the corridor, uplifted by the appearance of a mysterious violin… That means nothing to you too, does it?”

James’s hazy mind struggled to keep the relief from appearing on his face. The plan was still safe then.

“Do you know what he thinks of you?”

James shook his head. He was very tired and his defences seemed to naturally crumble when faced with the subject of Sherlock. He had no idea what the other man thought of him. James frowned. He shouldn’t care what the other man thought of him.

“Oh, he has been helping Doctor Watson to understand what makes you tick. The two of them have been thick as thieves these last few days while you have been rolling around in your own piss.”

James felt an irrational surge of anger as he listened to Magnussen’s reported conversations between the two men. The conversations mainly concerned himself and his potential past and current mind-set. Sherlock was very intrigued with him and that fact calmed something in James that he didn’t completely understand. James pushed it aside, it didn’t matter. It was not part of the plan.

“Do you know what though, Jim? Despite his curiosity about you and his slow, painful recovery do you know what he still wants? What he has asked for, tried to bribe and threaten the doctors for still? He wants his drug. Shall I give him what he wants?”

James shrugged his shoulders with feigned indifference.

 “Or would it spoil your little game, Jim?” Magnussen asked. “Maybe you could play my game for a change? Work for me.”

“No.” The answer was automatic. James wondered tiredly when the man would finally stop asking.

“Work for me or I will give Sherlock Holmes what he truly wants,” Magnussen suggested silkily.

James attempted to summon up his earlier apathy but it was difficult. His brain needed sleep. Also, he was so hungry his stomach felt as though it was attempting to eat itself. And Magnussen, as usual, was hitting all the right buttons. The anger he could barely contain whenever the Leech was around him was close to boiling point.

“No. You do not own me. You will _never_ own me. So piss off!” James snarled.

Magnussen sighed and slid a sweaty finger down James’s face and James jerked his head away as far as he could.

“You do disappoint me, Jim. You showed so much promise when you were young. If only you would have given in then instead of being so obstinate.”

James glared at the man in stony silence.

“Think on it. If you don’t give in now Sherlock will be back in his drug den before the end of the week. I’m not sure Mr Holmes can continue on his previous increasing doses. Come to think of it, neither can you.”

James watched the man walk out, his mind already beginning to alter his previous plans. However, as soon as the door closed James’s eyes were shut and he was slumped in the chair, asleep.

*

This time the voice that woke him was more welcomed than the previous one.

 “God, you look rough.”

Mostly welcomed, that is.

 “Thank you for pointing that out Sebastian,” James rolled his eyes as he stretched his aching body as much as he could whilst still strapped to a chair. “Has the Leech fucked off?”

“Yeah, he’s gone boss.”

“Good,” James shuddered, “Gives me the heebie jeebies. Now get me out of this chair.”

“Um, can’t do that. Sorry boss,” Sebastian muttered anxiously.

James took a deep breath and reminded himself that Sebastian, although sometimes quite stupid, was actually very useful.

“Why not?”

“Magnussen wants you tied up for a while. He’ll know it was me if I let you out now.”

“Don’t be a moron Sebastian! He already knows you’re my little lackey,” James snapped.

Sebastian looked confused. “Why does he keep me employed here then?”

“Because he’s waiting for an opportunity to use you against me, doofus! Now let me up!” James yelled, agitated after sleeping bound to a chair for what was probably a good few hours.

At that Sebastian moved to quickly undo the straps, disregarding Magnussen’s orders in favour of not getting on his true boss’s bad side.

When James was free he stood and immediately had to sit down again. He held his head as his vision swam and swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. The numerous self-made gouges in his skin, which he feverishly hoped Sebastian was not taking note of, were still very raw and some painfully deep. He had no doubt that blood loss combined with the withdrawal would make the next few days quite challenging.

“You ok, boss?”

 “We need to bring the plan forward and make some small adjustments,” he said, ignoring the man’s concern.

“Ok, when do we start?”

“Right now.”


	7. Some Kind of Madness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole of this chapter takes place before the previous one, as I needed to go back and explain Sherlock's side of things before James can follow up on 'the plan'.
> 
> Also this story is getting longer and longer and I think I've probably doubled my expected number of chapters. We're not nearly at the finish yet! 
> 
> Thank you to the people so far who have taken the time to give the story kudos and comments- they stop my laziness taking over :D

**_Earlier that day…_ **

 

“Recovering alcoholic, boyfriend left her late last year. Her two young children are currently staying with grandparents and are, no doubt, much better off there anyway. “

“And that one?”

“Suffering from some sort of anxiety, or what he thinks is anxiety. His wife actually _is_ having an affair with his brother and she plans to take all his money and leave him.”

“And her?”

“Psychically abused a number of times by a family member, who coincidentally is still visiting her here- you really ought to put a stop to that,” Sherlock sighed. “Look, do we have to continue doing this? It is frightfully dull.”

“But this is amazing! Fantastic!” John Watson’s eyes were lit up like Christmas had come early.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the man’s exuberance but inwardly felt the stirrings of pride. He knew it was amazing but to have someone as ordinary as John Watson acknowledge this was a new experience. Most people scoffed at his deductions and put his knowledge down to either good guesses or outright lies. Having his brilliance accepted and even marvelled at was a strange thing indeed.

They were currently sat in Reichenbach Retreat’s café area. John hadn’t left Sherlock alone until he had agreed to go, wanting to ensure Sherlock was firmly on the path to recovery. Sherlock wasn’t sure about that. Psychically he was starting to feel better, he’d managed to eat a little of the food Mrs Hudson regularly brought to his room and even slept a little. However, mentally there was very little to distract himself away from the thought of getting high just one more time. The one distraction he had was his endless curiosity of James Moriarty, but unfortunately the man had been strangely absent for some days now. The violin was the only other thing that helped, as it reminded him of all the terrible things that had come from his destructive habit. It wasn’t enough, however, which was the other reason he was sitting here with John Watson.

“Well? I am here. I’ve eaten. I’m having a conversation with another person. Now will you tell me what has happened with James Moriarty?”

The smile on the man’s face faded at the mention of the name, as it usually did. John Watson was a good man. He was moral and loyal. He appreciated genius without the feelings most people had of jealousy or fear. Once the two had talked (without Mrs Hudson being in the room for John to get protective over) he and Sherlock had begun to get along rather well. Sherlock had in fact decided he quite liked ‘dull’ John Watson. John Watson, however, did not like James Moriarty.

“I wish you could just forget about him, Sherlock.”

“You know I can’t John. Even you think his contradictory behaviour is odd! All the staff who have worked with him have never seen the man who I have talked with. He’s never really talked to anyone else, let alone shown actual interest in a person, other than me. I have to know why.”

John sighed and rubbed his neck, discomforted.

“I agree that it doesn’t make sense. But I am concerned to show you this Sherlock. It disturbs people who he’s never had interactions with, let alone someone whose bedroom he regularly breaks into. I don’t want this to have any kind of effect on your own recovery.”

“I thought you were a man of your word John Watson,” Sherlock frowned.

“I am,” John sighed. “I will take you and show you if that’s what you want. After all, you filled your end of the deal by coming to the café.”

John stood abruptly and Sherlock followed him out of the large room. He noted the stiff way John held himself and realised the man was anxious about this situation. Sherlock inwardly shrugged. He had to understand James Moriarty at all costs. Even if that meant witnessing another of his mock psychotic episodes, as he had displayed the first time Sherlock met him.

Sherlock followed the John down a corridor that was similar to his own. However, at the farthest end of the corridor there were two guards, a security camera and a door covered with heavy metal bolts and digital locking systems.

“What do they think he’s going to do- steal the crown jewels?” Sherlock smirked at the uneasy security guards as John waved a card at them.

They were through with no fuss and, after all the codes were put in place and bolts unlocked, they walked up to what looked like a prison cell door. Sherlock felt a prickle of unease run through him. The extreme security and the restlessness of the guards made Sherlock wonder if James really was psychotic. Sherlock scowled. No. He was sure it was just good acting skills. He refused to believe that a man of comparable intellect to himself would allow his mind to become deranged. James was a very good performer and nothing more.

Sherlock flinched when the first scream cut through the air.

John motioned wearily to the small pane of reinforced glass at the top of the door.

Sherlock approached the glass and squinted. He could barely see the room as the glass was covered with some sort of dark film. A figure was definitely in there though, one that was slight enough to be James. He seemed to be hitting something rather viciously. Sherlock leaned closer to the glass and immediately drew back when he realised he was hitting, scratching, tearing at himself. With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Sherlock realised what the coating on the glass was. Blood.

The screaming cut off and a noise like an animal in pain echoed from the room.

“Shouldn’t we-” Sherlock gestured to the room, for the first time in a long time, speechless.

John shook his head tightly.

“No. No. That would be a very bad idea,” John said grimly. “Apparently the staff used to go in and try to stop it but now we can’t risk it after what happened. Imagine what he’d do to others if he’s doing that to himself.”

Sherlock was disturbed by the scene to say the least. His eyes were reluctantly drawn back to the blood splattered window and he shuddered. He doubted if even James Moriarty the performer would go to such lengths to maintain an act.

“I’ve seen enough, thank you John.”

 

*

 

That evening Sherlock used John’s key card, which had been child’s play to steal from the oblivious doctor, to access the medical storage room. His addiction had been whispering to him constantly since seeing the sad and hopeless scene earlier. James Moriarty was so much like himself, although admittedly not when in the throes of psychosis, and if he was controlled by the flaws in his own mind then what hope did Sherlock have? Why should he continue to try? What was the point?

Sherlock’s hands quickly found most of the drugs he needed to get the familiar hit he’d been used to. As he started to open the packets he heard voices. It was John’s voice. Had he found out about the key card and was coming to check the room? Sherlock listened, standing silent and still.

“-didn’t realise you were coming here tonight, Mr. Magnussen.”

“Yes, Doctor Watson. I heard about James Moriarty.”

Sherlock moved closer to the door, intrigued. He knew that name. Magnussen was the owner of Reichenbach Retreat, a business man with strong links to the government, who had charitably opened the purpose built residence for troubled souls. For a price, of course. Sherlock had not met the man as of yet. He was interested though to know why this ‘business man’ was so interested in James.

“Well, Sir, I think this is the worst episode I’ve seen so far.”

“Mmm, and how is our other priority?”

“He’s doing well. He is quite fixated on Moriarty though, as you predicted.”

Sherlock frowned, starting to become unnerved by the conversation.

“Has he given you any valuable information on James yet? I know he’s visited Mr Holmes a few times now. Even given him a present, yes? How strangely… sentimental.”

Sherlock was quite agitated now. There was no need for Magnussen to have access to this information. He may be the owner but a patient’s confidentiality should be respected. Sherlock was surprised at the ease with which John Watson passed the information along. Sherlock gloomily mused that perhaps John had a good reason to do this if James was as much of a nutter as Sherlock had observed earlier.

“As you said before, they both seem to be drawn to each other and I’ve managed-“

The voices were fading and Sherlock was so absorbed in what the conversation may mean he nearly forgot where he was.

The door swung open suddenly and a man, one he thought he may have screamed at during his initial withdrawal, looked at him in disbelief.

“What are _you_ doing in here?” he exclaimed.

“God, are you that dim? What do you think?” Sherlock muttered waving the drugs he still had in his hand at the man. There was no point in pretending now.

The man responded by scowling at him and grabbing his arm in a tight, professional hold. He snatched the drugs out of Sherlock’s grasp and dragged him out of the room before Sherlock knew what was happening.

The man shut the door firmly and locked it, glaring at Sherlock.

“I don’t know how you got in and I don’t want to know!” The man’s eyes widened momentarily and he paled. “Jesus Christ, if the boss knew what you were doing… and with Magnussen here tonight too!”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the man suspiciously.

“And just who is your boss?”

“Mr Magnussen of course,” the man answered quickly.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Sherlock said, looking a little closer at the man, remembering the way he had so expertly removed him from the room. “And also a trained killer.”

Before Sherlock could press for more details from the now panicked man he saw John returning from the direction he’d just been walking in with a troubled look on his face.

“Ah, Sherlock,” the man smiled at him. “It’s nice to see you out of your room at your own discretion. Are you getting to know our latest recruit?”

Sherlock and the other man locked gazes. Sherlock could still see the panic in his eyes and he smirked knowingly. His little exploration of the storeroom was no doubt safe enough.

John must have noticed the strange stalemate. “Is everything okay?”

The other man was the first to break eye contact and he nodded to John.

“Everything’s fine, Doctor. I was just having a chat with Mr Holmes before I got on with the rest of my rounds.”

“We’ll have to chat more some other time,” Sherlock smiled.

The man nodded stiffly and was about to walk away when John called him.

“Oh and Sebastian? Please remember you are on duty later. Moriarty seems to be finally calming down for whatever reason.”

Sebastian’s eyes darted anxiously to Sherlock before nodding and quickly walking away.

Sherlock smirked.

_Oh. So that’s who ‘boss’ was._

Sherlock suddenly felt better. Maybe James isn’t that good a performer and instead may be a little insane, but that obviously does not get in the way of the man’s intentions. He had a trained killer as an undercover employee. James also had enough money or ‘skills’ to acquire a genuine Stradivarius violin that when sold had kept Sherlock’s habit going for a long time. And Magnussen, a powerful ‘businessman’, was watching James and Sherlock’s every move.

Sherlock was practically vibrating with delight. It seemed that the game was not over just yet.


	8. Rise Up and Take the Power Back

A few days had passed since Sherlock had met Sebastian and realised James Moriarty was still the intriguingly genius man he had once believed him to be. Although, Sherlock’s opinion was still wavering a little on that point. The scene in the cell had certainly seemed genuine enough, despite the many times Sherlock had relived it in his memory palace. Sherlock was, however, waiting. He knew James would turn up sooner or later. And when he did Sherlock would then ultimately decide if the man really was a complete nutter or not.

Sherlock stared blankly out of his room’s rain splashed window as he plucked the strings of his violin in a discordant melody.

_Dull._

He was so bored at Reichenbach that he nearly damned the mystery of James Moriarty for his favourite fix many times in the last few days. Something stopped him though and made him continue to wait. He had a peculiar feeling that if he did the result may even be better than he expected. One thing could be said for James Moriarty, sane or not, he wasn’t boring.

His door opened and his lips curled slightly at the sides of his mouth.

_At last._

He continued to look out the window and pluck the strings of his violin, now a little faster paced and marginally more melodious.

“Do you have to make that horrendous noise?”

The usually smooth voice was ever so slightly strained. It was enough to make Sherlock pause his playing and turn to study the man he had been waiting for.

James leaned into the wall and watched Sherlock with a sneer. He was attempting his usual lazy grace but Sherlock could immediately see he was still in pain. He wore a doctor’s coat and someone else’s trousers and shirt. No doubt this was to hide his own self-made injuries, as well as to disguise himself enough to gain entry to Sherlock’s room.

“What are you doing here in the daylight hours?” Sherlock asked as he put his violin in its case.

James shrugged casually.

“Well, we can’t very well run around the woods in the dark, now can we?”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at that.

“Ah, I see. So you think you can escape Reichenbach just like that do you? And that I am going to willingly come along for the ride?”

“I don’t _think_ , Sherly. I know,” James smirked.

“And do you know just where you have been the past week or so James?” Sherlock asked mildly.

James’s eyes narrowed.

“ _Yes_ ,” James hissed. “I’ve been locked up in that fucking prison like a diseased animal. I’ve had enough of that now Sherlock. I thought you would have had enough of it too.”

Sherlock felt as though he were baiting a snarling tiger but he couldn’t help just one more poke.

“Oh, I’ve had plenty to keep me occupied. I took a little tour of the place a few days ago,” Sherlock noticed a flicker of panic in James’s eyes but he continued, “and I saw you James. In the throes of absolute madness. If you think I would willingly go with you after that you really are insane.”

James’s face twisted with anger and he lunged at him viciously. Sherlock was, however, ready for the man’s temper this time and grabbed James as he came towards him. The two men fell to the floor as they grappled with each other. Sherlock was surprised to find it was easy to restrain James. Under his borrowed clothes the man felt dreadfully thin and James’s previously quick reflexes had become sluggish. When he held the squirming man still James flinched uncontrollably at Sherlock’s tight grip on his injuries.

James glared up at Sherlock with a hate filled expression as he continued his attempts to struggle out of the hold.

“You have no idea Sherlock Holmes!” James spat. “You think you can judge me? At least my downfall has been forced on me! Forced into me. Not like you. You welcome it with open arms. Stay here for all I care. Go back to your drugs. I’m not having anyone pump chemicals into me any longer!”

Sherlock’s grip loosened in surprise and sudden realisation. James immediately shoved him off with a hard push and sat up gingerly, shooting him a dark look.

Sherlock saw what he had been missing. Loss of weight, interrupted sleep cycle, intense mood swings, inconsistent behaviour. Not a psychological disorder. James was a… drug addict? Or rather, if what he was saying was true, a very unwilling one. But the behaviour Sherlock witnessed a few days ago was obviously not brought on by the drug Sherlock loved. Otherwise James would have been practically catatonic. He must have been given amphetamines, which when given a heavy enough dosage could indeed prompt episodes of psychosis. Sherlock’s eyes widened at the implications. A mind like James’s, a mind like Sherlock’s, mixed with an intense dosage of stimulant drugs… Sherlock shuddered at the thought. It was exactly what Sherlock was trying to escape from. A mind full of rampant, chaotic, uncontrollably constant thoughts.

“You’re being drugged,” Sherlock stated dumbly.

“Are you just getting that now?” James drawled. “When you came to spy on me did you think that was my regular daily activities? Screaming at hallucinations with a side of self-harm. I may be impulsive honey, but I am not a _lunatic_.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but be amused at the distaste in James words, as well as the disgusted crinkle of his nose.

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock agreed with a lighter feeling now in his heart.

Sherlock was relieved to have made his decision. James’s explanation for his insane behaviour, although it raised questions for further investigation, was certainly believable enough when taking all the evidence into account.

“So, now that you know I’m not going to rip your throat out with my teeth just for the hell of it, are you going to come with me?” James asked with a smirk.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked, wanting to know why James was so sure he would leave with him.

“Do you know your brother gets a daily email on what you are doing here? Your every move, every word is being noted and reported on. That information is not just being shared with your brother. Believe me, I’ve heard most of it. And by the way, you’re getting a little obsessed with me aren’t you, Sherly? Poor John Watson having to listen to you pine away for little old me.”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably at that. He was aware of John passing on information but hadn’t realised the extent of it. Or thought much on who received it beyond Magnussen. He was also more than a little annoyed, but not surprised, by his brother’s surveillance.

“I suppose Sebastian has given you all of this information?” Sherlock shot back, wanting to fluster James with his knowledge of the ‘undercover employee’ as much as he had felt unbalanced by James’s awareness of Sherlock’s fixation with him.

James snorted, clearly amused, and did not look at all surprised that Sherlock knew about his trained killer.

“You must be joking. Sebastian has many useful skills but undercover agent work is not one of them, as has been proven by your awareness of him.” James’s eyes darkened suddenly. “I got my information from a much more direct source.”

“Magnussen.”

Sherlock had suspicions about the man but they were proven correct when James nodded stiffly in response to his deduction.

“You could get out of here at any moment. You have Sebastian, as well as many other back up escape routes, no doubt." Sherlock's eyes narrowed in thought as he mused aloud. "He is holding something over you, isn’t he? Why else would you voluntarily stay here and allow him to poison you?”

James laughed, more morose than manic for once.

“I have escaped many times Sherly. What he holds over me has often been… disappointing to say the least.”

“So why stay?”

James’s eyes glittered darkly.

“In here, out there, it doesn’t matter. I’m as much a prisoner anywhere so long as Magnussen lives. He needs ending.” James grinned abruptly and sing-songs, “What can I say? The guy knows how to spoil my fun!”

Sherlock’s gaze snapped to the door as the handle was jerked up and down. It was obviously locked somehow. James must have jammed the electronic key pad as he came in. James looked at the door and stood up with a small wince of pain. He gave Sherlock a challenging look and stretched out his hand.

“Last chance Sherlock, are you coming with me? We could ruin his fun for a change.”

Sherlock looked at James’s offered hand and felt the moment stretch into an eternity. This was the moment he had been waiting for. Here they were, two unarmed men, trapped in a room with probably at least ten guards and security staff on the other side of a locked door. And James Moriarty was proposing escape like he could click his fingers and teleport them to a far off location.

Sherlock grinned and grabbed James’s hand.

James pulled him up and smiled back at him, mischief written all over his face. “I knew you weren’t boring Sherlock.”

James pulled two small gas masks out of his coat pockets and handed one to Sherlock.

“Put it on quickly. We’ve got about three minutes maximum. The gas spreads quickly so keep it on. We’re going straight through the main entrance. Ready?” James put on his mask and quirked an eyebrow.

There were now loud bangs and the door shook as the Reichenbach staff attempted to force it in. Sherlock felt the adrenaline pumping through his blood and couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this alive. He swiftly put his own mask on, grabbed his violin case and nodded.

James pulled out a small canister of what Sherlock deduced (and fervently hoped) was a non-lethal mixture of lachrymatory agents and rolled it to the floor. The gas began to spread around the room and the crashes grew louder and louder until the door burst inward. Sherlock was relieved that his deduction about the gas had been correct, as from the immediate effect he could tell it was a mixture between OC and tear gas. The men who had forced their way inside collapsed within seconds of exposure to the gas and attempted to crawl back out. They didn’t get very far.

Sherlock stepped over the choking and blind figures and followed James down the corridor where more of the staff were falling to the floor, overcome by the gas. James threw a few more canisters to the floors as they walked out despite the fact that it seemed as though the majority of the staff had been outside Sherlock’s room anyway. Who knows what James had done to get them all to rush to Sherlock’s room, but whatever it was had definitely worked. A very neat little trap.

James typed in the passcode to the final security door and they both pushed it open. The gas billowed around them as they stepped outside. Sherlock felt a momentary pang he didn’t have a dashing dramatic coat that would no doubt have finished off the look. Although, from the looks of the already unconscious perimeter guards (no doubt Sebastian’s doing) the effect would have been a wasted effort.

They both pulled off the masks and Sherlock mimicked James by dropping his to the ground. James then wasted no time and immediately began to strip. He threw his doctor’s coat at Sherlock with a wink.

“You can be Doctor.”

Sherlock grabbed the coat and pulled it over his head hurriedly to hide his flushed cheeks. Sherlock was still frowning over how he allowed the comment and gesture to affect him when James nodded to a parked car in front of the building.

“Get in the front passenger side. Sebastian’s got your pass. There’s no running through the woods today. I’ll see you on the other side, Sherly.”

He then opened the boot of the car and climbed in, slamming it shut on top of himself.

Sherlock walked around to the front of the car and got in beside Sebastian who gave him an appraising look.

“So you decided to go with the boss then?”

Sherlock turned to place his violin case carefully in the back of the car and rolled his eyes at the inane question.

“So it would seem.”

Sebastian handed him a badge with the Reichenbach logo on and Sherlock snorted at it. On it was picture of himself, the name ‘Doctor Shirley’ next to it. He clipped it onto one of the doctor’s coat pockets, his pulse racing again as Sebastian started up the engine and freedom became imminent.

“We’ve got one more security check to pass through and then we’re out. They won’t recognise you. The boss made sure they weren’t on the gates when you were brought in,” Sebastian commented as the car rolled forward. He then continued in a lower tone of voice, “I hope you know what you’ve got yourself into Mr Holmes.”

Sherlock couldn’t help the smile of pure excited glee that spread across his face.

“I appreciate your concern Sebastian but I know exactly what I’ve agreed to be involved in… And it’s already even better than I had imagined.”


	9. Like a Bullet in the Back

The last security checkpoint was undeniably anti-climactic. Sherlock and Sebastian flashed their passes and the guards had allowed them to leave Reichenbach Retreat without a second glance. Sebastian had then driven as fast as he could, without jolting James about the boot too much, down the winding country roads.

Half an hour into the journey Sebastian pulled up at a country trail carpark. Other than a few parked cars, whose owners were no doubt wandering down the muddy tracks with their canine companions, there was no one else around. It was quiet and eerie.

“Is this the part where you and James kill me and bury my body in the woods?” Sherlock asked, deadpanned.

Sebastian grinned. “How about we do the boss instead?”

“I heard that,” James voice growled from the back of the car. “Sebastian you had better get this fucking boot open right now. You’ve left it late enough as it is.”

Sebastian’s smile dropped from his face and he hastily jumped out of the car and opened the boot for his boss. Sherlock followed, taking his precious violin from the back of the car to ensure he didn’t lose it.

James gave Sebastian an unimpressed glare as he climbed out of the boot. Sherlock immediately noted James was now wearing a non-descript black jacket, no doubt left in the boot for him by Sebastian, under which he hid a small revolver. Sherlock wondered again, this time with a little more seriousness to the thought, if his body really was going to end up buried in the nearby bushes. However, James merely grabbed the keys from the now apologetic looking Sebastian and sauntered up to Sherlock with a playful look on his face.

“Hello Sherly. You’ll need to leave the badge and the coat now.” James raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Unless you want to keep them for later that is.”

Sebastian walked off towards another parked car with a pained expression.

“Don’t mind him. He’s a bit of a homophobe,” James said with a shrug and then raised his voice. “It’s a good damn thing he knows how to shoot a rifle!”

Sherlock, whose brain had again frozen at James’s flirtatious comments, dragged the coat off himself and flung it in the boot of the old car. James shut the car and locked it, throwing the keys into the bushes nonchalantly. He laughed suddenly as he walked towards the car Sebastian had got into. Sherlock followed the unpredictable man with narrowed eyes.

“You really don’t know how to respond to me do you Sherly?” James turned around to him abruptly and Sherlock was startled to a halt. “Or maybe you do?”

Sherlock locked eyes with James, his mouth dry and heart thumping in the strange manner it always seemed to around the other man. Sherlock knew what James was doing. He wasn’t a complete social moron. It was simply unnerving to experience the rarely felt stirring of emotion that was triggered by James’s presence, let alone when he was being an outrageous flirt. It rather caught Sherlock off guard.

He was about to reply when he noticed two figures approaching from a car that had just pulled up.

“James Moriarty?” The click of a gun unlocking sounded like a bullet through the air. It was not James’s gun.

“Oh for fucks sake Sebastian!” James turned and thumped the boot of the new car. “What have I told you about swapping cars _earlier_?!”

Sebastian, who was already in the driver’s seat, held up his hands in apology.

“Don’t rush to join in you useless fuck! What the hell do I pay you for?” James screamed at the man.

Sherlock glanced at the two men who had obviously come to drag them both back to Reichenbach. They were watching James’s apparent hissy fit with contemptuous amusement. Sherlock saw them take stock of James’s small frame, dramatic temper and apparent reliance on Sebastian and dismiss the man as easy to deal with. Sherlock, however, had noticed the subtle movement of James’s hand sliding under his coat as he stomped about shouting at Sebastian.

James turned as fast as a striking snake. Before the men could react he shot them both in the head. Sherlock’s ears rang with the twin bangs of the gun. He watched as both men dropped heavily to the ground with identical sickening thuds.

Sherlock stared at the glassy eyed men who had matching holes in their heads. He then pitched over to the ground and threw up noisily.

James pulled urgently on his collar and Sherlock pushed him away.

“Don’t you dare look at me like that Sherlock!” James shouted manically. “Get up, get the fuck up! Fucking hell we haven’t got the time for this!”

James dragged him up and over to the bodies. Sherlock felt his stomach clench again as he stared at the first dead men he’d ever seen. Dead. They were dead. And James had killed them. Swiftly. Shamelessly. Dead.

“Stop that.” James shook him. “Look at them. LOOK at them!”

Sherlock blinked his eyes rapidly, attempting to do what the madman wanted.

“See who they are.”

Sherlock looked and he saw.

Both men were heavily armed. Guns and knives were skilfully hidden beneath their clothes. Both had expensive suits on, were clean shaven. Professionals. These weren’t simple security guards. They were professional assassins.

“Do you see now?” Sherlock nodded wearily and James loosed his iron grip.

He picked up the violin that Sherlock had dropped when he’d been sick and gestured with it to the new car.

“Good. Now let’s go.”

Sherlock followed, his eyes refusing to look back at the dead men they left behind.

*

Sherlock sat in the back of the new car next to James. The bitter taste of vomit still in his mouth was serving as a foul reminder of what had just taken place. He had been silent for half an hour now during their journey towards their destination. Sherlock deduced it to be London. James had a grim look on his face and was annoying Sherlock by constantly shooting him strange, concerned looks. Sherlock finally had enough.

“Stop it.”

“It’s my car I can do whatever I wish in it,” James snapped back childishly.

“Is that your attitude on everything? You believe you can do whatever you wish? Even murder at will?” Sherlock asked mildly.

“I’m not talking about this now,” James hissed, shooting a look towards Sebastian.

“Don’t mind me boss.”

“Sebastian I’ve still got that gun,” James growled.

Sherlock shuddered.

*

Eventually, after arriving in London and dodging through the now heavy rush hour traffic, Sebastian pulled into a side street alongside a set of large looking apartments. Sherlock got out of the car and stood on the pavement, wishing he had at least got a packet of cigarettes. He watched people walk around him and could barely believe how unaware they were that an unrepentant killer sat in a car so close to them. Sherlock noted that James was talking intently to Sebastian. No doubt giving him instructions that required more broken laws. Sherlock felt too drained to care what they may be. The initial excitement of his escape had dulled before the two dead men had hit the ground. The realisation that he had run off with a murdering psychopath was now starting to settle uncomfortably in his mind.

James climbed out of the car and shut the door with a grin. Murder obviously cheered the man.

He held up the violin case and waved it at Sherlock.

“Forgetting something are we?”

Sherlock barely glanced at it. Did he really want a gift from the devil?

“Stop looking so gloomy Sherlock. Aren’t you enjoying your newfound freedom?” James asked as he gestured Sherlock to follow him to one of the flats.

Despite his shock at James’s homicidal behaviour Sherlock found himself following the man into the flat with no hesitation. After all, James had not shown any real inclination to harm him... yet. And where else would Sherlock go? He had no money, no friends and no family. He was on the run from a corrupt government facility and inevitably, as soon as his brother was informed of Sherlock’s escape, Mycroft’s men. James was still a slightly better alternative to being caught and locked up by either group.

James’s apartment was extravagant and warm. The exact opposite of Reichenbach’s cold and basic design. The floors were covered in expensive oak panels, the furniture modern and stylish. However, there were no pictures or personal touches to the apartment. Purposefully so. This was no one’s home, a comfortable bolt hole, and James Moriarty could have hundreds of them scattered about the world for all Sherlock knew.

James dropped into a luxurious looking couch with a slight wince and turned his lips down mockingly at Sherlock’s serious expression.

“Oh honey, if you want to be a grump then fine! Don’t spoil my fun though just because your illusive morals are suddenly making an appearance.”

“Funnily enough cold blooded murder tends to put me in somewhat of a mood. Are you going to explain to me why I shouldn’t be running back to Reichenbach screaming?” Sherlock asked.

“Don’t be so ordinary honey.” James seemed to be quite amused. “I’m not about to harm you.”

Sherlock nodded and simply looked at James for further explanations.

James sighed. “I told you I wasn’t a good boy Sherlock. However, that time I was doing the world a favour. Those men were Magnussen’s assassins. I doubt very much if they would have killed me. I’m less certain about you though. Certainly Sebby would now be dead, if they were any good that is. And they definitely would not have asked us to go back to Reichenbach with a smile and some gentle words.”

“Still, I don’t see why it was necessary to-”

“Anything that weakens Magnussen’s power, even the death of two incompetent assassins, is very necessary.” James glowered. “Magnussen is a pathetic worm of a man who has acquired his power from gaining knowledge of everyone else’s dirty little secrets. He’s got everyone from the postman to the prime minister under his thumb. He’s a _blackmailer_.”

“I suppose that’s so much worse than a murderer,” Sherlock commented casually.

James shot him a furious look.

“Sherlock that man has kept me locked up for the last seven years. He has forcibly drugged me with amphetamines to make me appear psychotic and keep me weak for the last four years. Do you know why?”

Sherlock shook his head mutely, disturbed more by the tears collecting at the side of James’s eyes than the black rage etched on his face.

“Because I said no. I refused to work for him. The man is a disgusting piece of shit and the world would be better off without him!” James yelled.

Sherlock noticed the mad gleam in James’s eyes and let the matter drop. Not for the first time Sherlock wondered about the man’s past. James must have done something _significant_ to cause an obviously powerful and dangerous criminal to attempt to recruit a fourteen year old boy. This, along with the ease with which James had killed the assassins, unnerved Sherlock.

Yet, all of Sherlock’s horror at James’s violence and criminal inclinations had shrivelled to nothing when James’s voice had cracked while he spoke of Magnussen’s torture. James was hurt. Had been hurting for a long time. Sherlock was beginning to understand how a bond with another could somehow override any, and possibly every, transgression they may make.

He found he simply couldn’t care what James had done. Not today or before.

James was special. He had a beautiful mind. Sherlock’s hands fisted at his sides when he thought of that lovely brain being violated over and over again. No doubt given up to Magnussen by his alcoholic farther James would have had no one but himself to depend on. What could have been instead? Would he and James have met? Their similar ages and intellects suggest they would have. In that case would Sherlock have been so jaded and bored with life that he would have even considered chasing after his dangerous habit? Probably not.

James’s intriguing character and his equivalent intelligence challenged Sherlock on many levels. The ever pressing need for some sort of distraction from the monotony of life was lifted by James Moriarty. Even with the few encounters they had Sherlock felt a strange bond to the man he knew would always be present. A bond that, he suspected, was a lot deeper than he had initially thought.

He glanced back at James who was still scowling at Sherlock despite his fit of rage finally winding down.

He knew what James wanted to do. Sherlock knew because he wanted to do it too. James was planning to kill Magnussen. Sherlock couldn’t let that happen. Not because he wanted to spare Charles Augustus Magnussen. But because he wanted to save James Moriarty.

“If you go after him James it will do no good. He is obviously a powerful criminal and will undoubtedly have a lot of protection from many different sources. It would be madness to attempt anything,” Sherlock said with a frown.

James broke eye contact with Sherlock with a small pout.

“I need to leave then. I don’t want to be anywhere near Magnussen and his influence. You want to as well, don’t you Sherly? Get away from the Ice Man and his interference? Either that or we kill them both.”

Sherlock smiled uneasily at James’s glittering eyes and knew he wasn’t joking.

“I’d rather neither of us get locked up again in some dull facility,” Sherlock answered mildly.

James nodded thoughtfully. While Sherlock thought he hadn’t completely let go of the idea it was hopefully, for now at least, delayed.

“In that case...” James’s gun appeared in his hand and Sherlock blinked in surprise.

“Didn’t see that coming did you honey?” James smiled nastily and moved so that he was behind Sherlock, gun pushed hard into his curls.

Before Sherlock could form any type of response pain exploded in his head and everything went black.


End file.
